Dexter's Midnight Musings

Sunday, September 4, 2016

The one good thing about not blogging
very often is I get to save up a lot of stories/incidents to blog
about later. If I can just remember them all. This travel story
happened last December.

On December 28, the last day of my
Christmas holiday family visitation trip, the weather forecasters
predicted 27 inches of snow at home. As usual, they were completely
wrong; we only got 24 inches. But I was far away and unconcerned in
unusually balmy weather in Tennessee. With two days to clear the
snow from the runway and with the airport within walking distance of
home if necessary, I didn't worry.

Amazingly, on my last night away, with
humid conditions and a 68 degree temperature, we had a perfect night
to sit by the hotel firepit without even a jacket. Two of my
brothers were there along with assorted other hotel guests as we
relaxed and eventually closed down the bar which proved to be my
first mistake as hotel bars generally close at 11:00 or midnight, and
I had to get up at 4:00 a.m. to catch a 6:00 a.m. flight home.

One of the other hotel guests opened up
a travel bag and pulled out a bottle of whiskey for just such an
emergency. When he asked us if we wanted some, my answer of "sure"
became my second mistake. We enjoyed conversation late into the
night, and I had become completely oblivious to the time. As we
staggered back into the hotel, my brother said, "I can't believe
it's 3:00 a.m." Crud.

At that point, I decided if I went to
sleep I'd never get up for my flight so I just sat on the bed
watching tv for an hour trying to stay awake. Finally at 4:00 a.m.,
I got up to get in the shower as my phone buzzed with a voicemail.

"That can't be good," I
thought as I grabbed the phone and played the message.

"Hello, this is We Don't Fly in
Snow Airlines. We regret to inform you that your flight from Dallas
to Antarctica has been cancelled. However, we have booked you on a
later flight which departs on January 2."

"January! That's next year!"
I fumed to no one. "Four days? I can't get home for four days?"

I settled down and decided not to
panic. I've been in these situations before; I'm sure I can get a
flight via standby. I also realized that I could just stay in town
for another day or two and at least visit family and catch a flight
later in the week.

I checked in at the airport and told
the agent that if I could book a later flight, I'd just hang around a
few days. She glanced at the long line behind me and suggested that
all flights were booked up forever and ever and that I should be
happy just to get to Dallas. I figured she might be right, and at
least St. Pauli Girl could always drive to Dallas to pick me up. So
I headed toward the gate.

I finally collapsed into my seat on the
plane ready to sleep for a solid two hours during the flight. An
older man in jeans and a straw cowboy sat next to me (normal attire
on a flight to Texas). I quickly closed my eyes to signal him not to
bother me.

The plane finally took off, and I tried
to get comfortable for my nap. I heard a slight buzzing sound and a
light rap that slowly grew louder. I opened my eyes and noticed the
man next to me humming some sort of chant while patting out time with
his hands on his thighs. Then the chant went quiet and suddenly got
loud again. I decided the best plan of action would be to ask him
about it and see if he could keep it a little quieter.

"That's a lovely hymn you got
going there," I said. "What does it mean?"

"Keep up the good work," I
said as I turned back to the window and closed my eyes.

Thanks to his chanting, we made it
safely to Dallas and I was now running on about 20 minutes of sleep
in 24 hours. I decided I would treat myself to breakfast plus coffee
before my next flight. I liked my chances; with the snow two days
old, surely they had plowed the runway by now? As I finished my
eggs, my phone received another voicemail.

"Hello, this is See You Next Year
Airlines, your 9:30 flight has been cancelled. We booked you on
standby on a 2:30 p.m. flight but don't hold your breath. And
remember we still have a seat saved for you on that January 2 flight.
Have a nice day!"

By the time I had paid my check, and
left the restaurant, I looked up at a departures screen to see the
2:30 flight had been cancelled already. I called St. Pauli Girl to
relay the good news. Originally, we had planned to drive back to
Dallas on the 30th anyway to celebrate my birthday and spend the
weekend there. We came up with a brilliant plan that I could just
spend the night in Dallas, and she would drive out the next day like
we had planned.

I decided I had better talk to a real
airline agent to get everything straightened out. After an hour, I
made it to the front of the line and spoke to an agent.

I said, "Look my wife is gonna
pick me up tomorrow, so just keep me on that January 2 flight just in
case. I'll just spend the night here."

Relieved that he didn't have to think
or that I wasn't the typical angry psychopath airline passenger, he
said, "Would you like a discounted hotel room?"

"Why yes, yes I would. Of course,
I suppose I can't check in until this afternoon..."

Sunday, July 31, 2016

It was fitting that we ended up in the
church we had mostly grown up in. Attired in jackets, ties or dress,
we paraded down the main aisle reminiscent of Christmases long ago.
But this time, we had reserved seats, and no usher necessary to seat
us.

Back when we were scattered about at
various school locations, Christmas was the only time of the year
when we were all together. We always went to midnight mass on
Christmas Eve with my parents going at about 11:00 p.m. to save good
seats for everyone. The rest of us kids would arrive just before the
opening procession.

It must have been difficult to hold
onto those seats for the entire family for an hour. That service is
always very popular with standing room only by 11:30 p.m. Mr. P, the
head usher, prided himself on being able to fill the pews with 600
people when normal maximum capacity should have been 400. He would
stand next to a pew, hold up the number of fingers representing the
number of people he intended to seat there, then beckon with a wave
of those fingers. If no one came forward, he would start pointing at
specific people standing against the back wall. Then he would look
down at the people in the pew with a stern face that seemed
to say, "You best be moving over."

I'm sure he tried several times over
the years to force people into the pew my mom had reserved with
coats. My dad probably didn't care and would have thought "serves
the kids right for waiting until the last minute to show up."

But I'm sure my mom gave Mr. P a glare
that said, "You best be looking to seat those people elsewhere."

And every year, we would saunter in
just before midnight and sit in the pew that my mom had
saved.

I think we always thought our "just
in time appearance" irked her considerably. But we found out
years later that she loved having us dressed in our best clothes
parading through the entire congregation to our seat as if showing
off the family. She said we looked like the mafia all dressed up
with stern looks on our faces. Except for the crime, I guess.

I'm glad we did it one last time for
her.

Five or six years ago, after another
Christmas visit, I prepared to leave my parents' house to catch my
flight. My mom still displayed a sense of understanding with an
occasional word, maybe a laugh and that goofy look as if saying, "Are
you kidding me?" I wore some ghastly t-shirt with raised
lettering, and when I went to hug her goodbye, she traced the "S"
on my shirt with her finger and said, "Superman."

I don't know if it was a lucid thought,
a hibernating memory suddenly shot out of the dark recesses of the
brain or if she was even talking about me. But I chose to think she
was talking about me. I almost missed my plane because of having to
pull over a few times to clear my eyes and get my thoughts together.

All these years later, it has finally
dawned on me that she wasn't talking about me at all. She was
talking about my dad. I don't know anyone that would or could
possibly argue that he isn't Superman.

Most people, simply from watching
television if nothing else, are familiar with the classic marriage
vows, "to have and to hold, in sickness and health, until death
do us part." I don't know if those vows are still in use, but
I'm pretty sure it's hard to find a minister who actually believes it
or can say it with a straight face. In my lifetime, I doubt I will
witness anyone that can honor those vows as my parents did for 57
years.

"To have and to hold": that
first dance, holding hands, that first kiss, a wedding kiss, an
embrace on the first born, then another child, and another child,
etc. A few stolen moments on weekend getaways, the kitchen make-out
sessions when you thought there were no kids around (or just didn't
care), the hugs upon family deaths, weddings, and minor surgeries.
Holding hands in a custom built treehouse as the sun sets, holding
her up on the first slip to holding/carrying her wherever she needed
to go, to the final act of placing her in her resting place.

In retrospect, I guess the kids should
have been the ones saving the seats for my parents at Midnight Mass.
We might not have staved off Mr. P the usher with an easy glare, but
with two lawyers in the family, they'd issue subpoenas and
depositions while the rest of us engaged in fisticuffs,
half'-nelsons, full-nelsons, eye-gouging ("Hey Mr. P, I got two
right here!") and quite possibly a Stooges pie fight.

My parents probably would have avoided
the fracas and simply taken a seat somewhere in the back. My mom
would have put her head on my dad's shoulder and said, "Oh how I
love them."

Saturday, June 18, 2016

Late one evening, St. Pauli Girl and I
were sitting in our courtyard enjoying a cocktail when we noticed a
light reflecting off the side of the house. It disappeared then came
back. The courtyard is surrounded by a five foot high brick wall, so
we couldn't see beyond it without standing up. Having sat out there
on many a night, I knew it couldn't be the headlights of a car.

"What's that light?" I
asked. "Is that a flashlight?"

Then we heard a grunt.

"That sounded like an animal,"
I said.

"Yeah but they don't normally
carry flashlights."

I pushed my wrought iron chair back
dragging the legs along the bricks trying to make as much noise as
possible.

"Hello?" I called out as I
walked to the brick wall.

I peered out out over the wall and saw
a scruffy man in a white t-shirt, grey shorts and sandals and using
his cell phone as a flashlight.

"Hello, can I help you?" I
yelled out trying to be firm and civil

He said something, but I couldn't
understand it. He stood still staring at his phone.

"Time to get serious," I
thought.

"Hey! What are you doing on my
lawn?" I said in the deepest foreboding drill seargant voice I
could muster.

"I'm looking for my wife," he
snapped back as he resumed looking at his phone.

"Not good enough. What are you
doing on my property?" I demanded.

I turned to look at St. Pauli Girl to
tell her to get ready to call 911, but she was gone. Then I saw the
front porch light come on. I quickly ran into the house and to the
front door. I came out into the front yard and saw St. Pauli Girl
talking to the stranger. I ran toward them as St. Pauli Girl walked
back toward the garage.

"Marcellus Wallace, I live three houses down." the
stranger said as he held out his hand to me. (Names have been
changed to protect the innocent and not so innocent.)

I introduced myself and shook his hand.

"Just looking for my wife,"
he said. "So you bought the De La Hoya house?"

"What?" I asked while still
trying to grasp how this weird situation had now become a normal
conservation. "I didn't know the house had a name."

"They were the previous owners,"
he said smirking.

At this point I noticed his wobbly legs
as St. Pauli Girl came back from the garage.

"Well she's not in the garage,"
she said. "Did you meet Mr. Wallace? He said he saw his wife
walk up here."

"Yeah, I was concerned," he
said. "She was pretty drunk, and I'm just trying to get her home safely."

"I don't think so," I said,
"we've been out here all night and haven't seen or heard a
thing."

"Hmmm, maybe next door."

We watched him stumble across the
driveway into the neighbor's yard.

"I wonder who's drunker, him or
his wife," I said as we walked back to the courtyard.

"You know who that was don't you?"

"No."

"That was the ex-mayor."

"What? Really?" I asked.

"Yeah, can't remember when exactly
but I guess before you moved to the Great Republic of Texas."

We resumed our cocktails when about ten
minutes later, we saw the same light flashing on the house. We
walked back out to see Marcellus walking up our driveway again.

"She's not here," I yelled.
"We would have seen her."

"Just let me check your garage."

St. Pauli Girl walked through the
garage and told him the same thing.

Marcellus threw up his hands and walked
down the driveway and back to the street. He weaved badly in and out
of the street. We stood and watched him stumble up and down the
street a couple of times.

"Do you think we should call the
police?" St. Pauli Girl asked.

"I'm torn between not wanting to
stay up all night getting interviewed by the police and being
awakened by his cell phone flashlight shining in our bedroom window.
If we see him come by again before we call it a night, we'll call the
police."

We sat down and quietly contemplated
the incident for a few minutes.

I finally broke the silence. "You
know, considering this is Texas, it's amazing and lucky that we were
both unarmed."

We didn't see him again the rest of the
night.

Several weeks later, St. Pauli Girl
called me at work to tell me the dogs had escaped from the backyard.
Both the sidegate and back gate were wide open, and I failed to
notice when I let the dogs out.

"Do you think the mayor was
looking for his wife again?" St. Pauli Girl asked.

Sunday, May 15, 2016

(After a much longer sabbatical than otherwise planned, I have returned! Hello, is anyone still out there? Anyone?)

We live almost across the street from a
private golf club (no, I am not a member so I yell and shake a fist
at whoever may hit a golf ball into our yard). One day earlier in
the spring, while raking leaves in the yard, I wiped my brow
and hoped that St. Pauli Girl would come out, offer me a beer and
tell me to quit for the day. Suddenly I heard a thumping noise as a
car came down the road next to the golf course. Someone definitely
had a flat tire.

The car slowly veered onto our street
and stopped in the middle of the street in front of our house. Now
our street is very narrow and appears more like a driveway, but
nevertheless it is still a street where cars do go in both directions
often times much faster than they should.

I stood and waited for the driver to
exit the car. Knowing that chivalry would demand that I offer to
help if the driver were female, I prayed for a male driver. Luckily,
the driver was a man, an older man, but I judged him fit enough to
change the tire by himself. I resumed raking.

Despite the fact that the back tire was
flat, he knelt down by the front tire and examined it for some
reason. After a few minutes, he went behind the car and opened the
trunk. I saw him moving some things around, then he came back and
looked at the back flat tire. I felt relieved that I would not have
to go down and point out the correct flat tire. He then pulled out
his phone and made a call.

"Ah," I thought in relief.
"he's calling AAA or a buddy so I don't have to worry about
whether or not I should offer to help."

Upon completion of his call, he went
back to the trunk where he pulled out his golf clubs which I assumed
were blocking his access to the spare tire and jack. Instead, he
closed the trunk and stepped onto the grass bordering the golf
course. He pulled out some golf clubs and started swinging them to
loosen up.

"Interesting," I thought. "I
guess maybe he called his friends to have them pick him up on the way
to the golf course."

He then grabbed his golf bag and
carried it down next to a tree bordering the first fairway. A few
minutes later, a golf club worker pulled up in a golf cart. They
threw his bag in the back and drove back to the first tee.
Apparently, so as not to miss his tee time, he had called the golf
club pro shop and asked to have someone come pick him up.

It's quite possible I would have done
the same thing except for the part where he parked his car in the
middle of our road.

"Whatever," I thought. "Maybe
AAA is going to come fix it while he plays golf. At least it's
Sunday and there's not much traffic on the road."

But AAA never came. And as darkness
settled in, the golfer never came back either. The disabled car
remained parked in the middle of the road overnight and through most
of Monday as well. I finally noticed at some point Monday night, the
car had disappeared.

I tried to decide if he was arrogant or
just stupid then realized that was a waste of my own time trying to
figure that out. The lesson in retrospect, was that I should have
offered to help. He may have declined my offer, but at least when
the caddy came up in the golf cart, I could have said, "Woah,
woah, woah, buddy. Let's get this car off the road and out of the
way before you get to your jolly, jaunty golf game. And whatever you
do, don't park it on my lawn!"

Tuesday, March 31, 2015

In recent news, an Arizona state
legislator has come up with the novel idea that the federal
government should force people to attend the church of each person's
choice once a week. Alert readers would think that I would object to
this jack-booted federal overreach seeing as how I tried to avoid
church whenever possible as a kid. But these dear readers would be
wrong. No, I don't want to be forced to go to church every Sunday, but I would like to own and operate churches in a country where citizens are forced to
attend church.

What is almost as much fun as going to
church on Sundays? Watching sports of course, especially football.
Welcome to my new church: The Church Of the NFL
or CON for short. As the first Pope of this church, I have
taken the name Pope Rockefeller.

Allow me to sermonize:

"In the name of Lombardi, Shula,
and Halas, let's huddle up. Amen. A preacher once said, 'If Jesus
played football, he'd play it hard-nosed but within the rules. He
wouldn't hesitate to run over you, but then he'd shake your hand
after the game win or lose.'

"You know what else Jesus would
have wanted if he played football? He'd want you to watch. On a 75
inch high-def big screen. Welcome to our CON
sanctuary featuring 60 big screen televisions and a plush leather
recliner for each worshiper. Our altar has 17 taps featuring the
finest Abbey Ales, Trappist Ales and of course every flavor from St.
Arnold Brewery.

"Start
the day in our confessional where you can confess your sins or
discuss the upcoming games and point spreads with Father Bookie.
(Wink, wink.) What's better than professional cheerleaders on a big
screen tv? Live cheerleaders Altar
Girls. They'll come around with the collection plate and for a
special price will take you back to the VIP room confessional where you can negotiate an even bigger donation.

"At
halftime and between games, you'll be invited to take part in the
holy sacrament of Buffalo Wings and Nachos. Wash it down with some
holy water from our own Bishop Jack Daniels. And then we'll pray,
'May the coin toss be with you.'

(Response:
'And also with you.')

'You
may now fist bump your neighbor.'

"The
only singing in our sanctuary is that old 'Houston Oilers, Houston
Oilers...' song. Chanting and foul language are allowed - when
you feel the holy spirit of Curly Lambeau coursing through your
veins, you can ask to be saved and baptized under a shower of
Natural Lite.

"All
of this can be yours for the small tithe of $39.95 per week plus a 2-drink minimum of our sacramental wine or beer."

As Pope of this new style of Sunday morning worship, I would offer other franchises denominations as well:

Wednesday, March 25, 2015

Long time readers will remember our
affinity for Las Vegas, if not, you can find it here, here and here or just go here for all of them.
Anyway, we spent another spring break in the adult Disney World and
came away with these observations/incidents:

Early Winners

On the plane, we treated ourselves to
cocktails with some complimentary drink coupons. Since it was
vacation, we ordered a second round without the coupons. We offered
the credit card to the airline hostess who just looked away. Free
drinks! Winners already!

Sightseeing

In pretty much every major city these
days I believe, you can find people dressed in superhero costumes
that will pose for pictures with tourists (which begs the question,
"shouldn't you be out fighting crime?"). Downtown Las
Vegas (Fremont Street) takes this to another level. You can pose
with showgirls, strippers, beefcake guys, women in catsuits, guys in
thongs and some guy that operates a dancing wooden Indian puppet.
I'm pretty sure you could lay down in the street, put out a tip jar
and a sign that says, "This is what Elvis looked like when he
died", and you could make a small fortune.

To top it all off, we saw a 60 year old
woman wearing angel wings, jean shorts, and exposing her large, long,
pendulous breasts with only duct tape covering the nipples. I'm not
sure if you could pose for pictures with her, but one could argue the
duct tape resembled a Captain America shield. We just moved out of
the way because I'm pretty sure she could have kicked my ass even if
she wasn't Captain America.

Juuuuuuune!

One night while playing blackjack in a
casino, an old hippy-ish gentleman with a long beard came rolling by
in a wheelchair with a sound system blasting "Jackson" by
Johnny Cash.

The Chinese blackjack dealer sighed,
"Only in America."

"Only in Vegas," I corrected
her.

That Guy

We went to brunch at Bouchon which is a
nice restaurant at the Venetian. We were seated next to a large man
in a track suit with a Donald Trump knockoff toupee and bare feet.
Now, yes, this restaurant is near the pool, but really, he couldn't
slip on some sandals at least? Then we overheard this conversation
on his phone:

"So yeah, we can get your wife on
the board. I mean with your help and mine, we can do it. And then
we have zero liability."

Yeah, that doesn't sound fishy coming
from a barefoot guy in a track suit in Las Vegas.

Bring Your Own Broads
One night we finally ventured into "Oscar's Beef, Booze and Broads" which is a steakhouse owned by the ex-mayor. Apparently, the broads part of the name referred to the fact female hostesses would sit at your table and engage you in conversation. Kind of like if Disney World had a "Hooker Experience" ride.
Anyway, we finally asked our server where the broads were.

"Oh she only comes in on weekends," she replied.

She? There's only one? The sign promised us broads damn it! I guess we'll bring our own next time.

Reason #3879 Why I Love Las Vegas

So I'm sitting at a bar next to a
couple of local guys boozing it up on St. Patrick's Day. Their
conversation went something like this:

"You want a shot, bro?"

"You know it, bro."

"Man, that was a good shot."

"You know it, bro."

"You want another one, bro?"

"You know it, bro."

Later one of them said to the
bartender, "Hey did you see that protest on the news? What was
it, anti, anti, what do you call it? Anti-seminism."

"Uh-oh," I thought. "He
means anti-Semitism which means he's probably about so say something
disturbing or at least grossly inappropriate."

Then he started talking about pregnant
women, and I realized he actually meant, "artificial
insemination." Or maybe "anti-semenism."

Friday, March 13, 2015

If you grew up in the eighties, you are
quite familiar with soap opera star turned pop star Rick
Springfield's hit song "Jessie's Girl." Or maybe you just
currently listen to an oldies station, and you are now familiar with
that song. The song was a massive hit because to be honest it had a
good beat, and I guess you could dance to it. But I'm not sure
anyone ever paid much attention to the lyrics.

Quick synopsis (full lyrics or song): Rick is jealous of his
friend Jessie's new girlfriend. And being the good friend that he
is, Rick kind of would like to make that girl his girlfriend. Or
just talk dirty to her, I'm not sure.

It's one thing to be envious or even a
little jealous of a friend's lover, but when you start fantasizing
and scheming, you're crossing the line into creepy stalker territory.
Because of that, I felt I needed to write the rebuttal song from
Jessie's point of view (to the tune of the original song):

About Me

I live in a small town in Texas. I am the real America. I wasn't born in the republic which means I'm not really Texan. I do have a pickup truck but since it's a Nissan, I'm still not considered Texan. I only drive it when no one is looking. I'm a man without a country and a man without a car. I'm an entrepreneur but not a good one as I recently had to close down the family restaurant. But that makes me an economic expert. I can seriously blame the restaurant's closing on Obama, Cheney, NAFTA, Cash for Clunkers, TARP and even Bernie Madoff who never spent millions in my restaurant. Not even a dime.